by Anna Gerard
I immediately saw that the restaging of my front porch had continued. Someone had moved both of my Adirondack chairs out into the yard and under the magnolia. Harry slouched in one, looking very directorial wearing mirrored sunglasses and with his omnipresent binder propped in his lap. Mattie had commandeered the other chair, sitting so that she was rolled back on her rump with all four legs sticking out, virtually mimicking Harry’s pose.
Since the players appeared to be re-setting themselves between scenes, I took the opportunity to go over and talk to Harry.
“I see you found your assistant director,” I told him, indicating the pup.
Harry smiled in Mattie’s direction, and for a moment twin Aussies were reflected in his sunglasses. “She’s a lot smarter than most of the ones I’ve worked with, I’ll give her that. So, are you here to work?”
“Actually, I’m here to let you know that everyone’s morning snack is laid out in the dining room. And, if you don’t mind letting Mattie hang out with you a while longer, I need to run a quick errand. I’ll join everyone after lunch if that’s all right.”
Harry gave me a look over the mirrored shades. “It’s pretty bad when your dog is more dedicated to the arts than you. Tell Dr. Bishop that I said hi.”
I considered protesting that the funeral home wasn’t where I was headed, but both of us would know I was lying. So instead I said, “No way am I bringing up your name. I mentioned you yesterday and about got the deep freeze from him. So apparently you’re still in the good Reverend’s bad book.”
“I can’t think why.”
“No, seriously,” he protested when I snorted in disbelief. “The only thing I remember is that whole disappearing coffee-cup hoopla I told you about the other day. My theory has always been that Sister Malthea broke it and hid the evidence.”
My snort became a snicker. The elderly church secretary would have been merely middle-aged at the time, and her champagne-colored Cadillac fresh off the showroom floor. I could readily picture the tiny woman sneaking pieces of the broken mug out to her ride, and then driving far out into the country to some bridge at midnight and tossing the shards into a fast-moving stream.
“Fine, I believe you,” I told him. What I didn’t say was that, depending on how well the cobbler worked as a bribe, I might ask the pastor outright why he was still holding a grudge against one Harry Westcott.
Chapter Eighteen
“Dom Perignon?”
I smiled a little as I stared at the matte-black gift box that Dr. Bishop had just handed me there in the foyer of his church. The gold shield label on its front said Vintage 2006. Probably a good year for champagne, not that I drank Dom on a regular basis. In fact, I’d not had any since celebrating one of the ex’s first tournament wins several years earlier (I’d toasted my divorce with margaritas instead).
I grinned inwardly. Perhaps it was meant to be a swap for the cobbler I’d brought for him and Sister Malthea, and which the latter had already carried off to the church office for later. If so, I definitely was getting the better part of the deal.
But, of course, the sturdy yet elegant box I held now was far too light to contain a bottle of the iconic sparkling wine.
“The packaging was left over from last night,” the Reverend explained with an answering smile. “Mr. Murphy’s wake was quite the celebration of a long life, and we opened more than one bottle in his honor.”
“I thought the box would be a more fitting receptacle for your stemware than a potato chip canister,” the pastor went on. “And you can be assured that Sister Malthea carefully cleaned your glass before packing it. Now, unless there is anything more I can do for you …”
He trailed off on a questioning note and with an elegant gesture to the door behind me, both of which translated to, Why don’t I see you out now? It had been merely bad luck on his part that he happened to be in Sister Malthea’s office when I stopped in. But as this was likely my last chance to chat with the man—unless someone else checked out in a more figurative sense from my B&B sometime in the near future—I had to seize the opportunity now.
“Thanks again, Dr. Bishop,” I told him, keeping my feet firmly planted. “But maybe you can help relieve my mind a bit more concerning this unfortunate situation. You see, it turns out that a few of the people staying with me actually do take Pazaxa, so it’s possible that Mr. Marsh did too. But I would have thought it was a safe drug, with all those people having prescriptions for it. Why would it factor into Len’s death?”
The coroner hesitated. I suspected he was weighing the enjoyment of lecturing on a subject he knew well versus giving me, the civilian, too much info. After a moment, he apparently decided to indulge his scholarly side.
“At the directed dosage, Pazaxa and similar antianxiety medications have minimal side effects and seem to be quite beneficial to those who take them properly. But at too high a dosage, or mixed with certain other medications—most particularly opioids—the interaction can prove injurious … or even deadly.”
“But shouldn’t he—or shouldn’t his doctor—have known all that?”
He nodded. “Yes, which is why I would guess that this drug was not specifically prescribed for Mr. Marsh. No competent physician would prescribe benzodiazepine to someone taking opioids.”
“And now,” the pastor finished with a smile, “I really must say goodbye. Thank you again for the cobbler.”
A few moments later I pulled the Mini out of the church parking lot and barely missed hitting the ginormous SUV that zipped through the intersection in front of me. Which reminded me that Len had recently been the victim of a hit-and-run accident. An accident that, given this new information, maybe hadn’t been so accidental.
Meaning that perhaps one of the GASP troupe—all of whom lived in Atlanta—had been behind the wheel of the hit-and-run car.
And also meaning that the whole drug in the mimosa thing could actually have been a second—and finally successful—attempt by one of his fellows to murder Len Marsh.
During the short drive back, I tried to recall where everyone had been while the mimosas were being served, and how everyone had reacted when Len’s body was found. But my mental spreadsheet flew right out of my mind when I turned down my street to see twenty or more people in my driveway crowded around my wrought-iron gate. Worse, a sheriff deputy’s car was parked in front of the house.
The frantic refrain of, Don’t let it be someone else dead, looped through my brain at supersonic speed as I cut over to the opposite lane and screeched the Mini to a halt nose-to-nose with the cop car. Leaving purse and champagne box on the front seat, I grabbed my keys and rushed down the sidewalk to the gate.
The deputy on scene was again the red-haired Mullins. He stood with the crowd who were pressed up against the bars of the gate, apparently intent on something happening beyond it. I halted alongside the deputy.
“What’s wrong?” I breathlessly demanded, as from my angle I couldn’t see through the gaggle of bystanders. “And please don’t tell me there’s another body lying around!”
Mullins turned and whipped off his omnipresent amber-lensed sunglasses. Wire-framed and vaguely aviator in style, they bore a strong resemblance to those worn by the red-haired actor on that CSI show from a few years back. Deliberately, I was sure.
Deadpan, he said, “Ms. Fleet, we received a call about men fighting and weapons being drawn. Do you know anything about this?”
Before I could reply, a cheer rose from the group beside me. Mullins glanced toward the gate and broke into a grin. Realizing what must be happening, I muttered a few swear words and shoved my way through the three-deep crowd for a look myself.
Radney sprawled face-up on the grass beneath the edge of magnolia’s canopy. Harry posed dramatically over him, the point of his sword at Radney’s throat. And then, with a final poignant cry of, “I am justly killed with my own treachery!” Radney twitched for a moment and then lay still.
The crowd around me burst into enthusiastic a
pplause. After holding his pose a moment to allow those with cell phones to get a picture, Harry straightened. He thrust his sword into the grass beside him (another thing for Hendricks to complain about!), then reached a hand down to his vanquished foe. Radney leaped up, miraculously healed, and both men took sweeping bows.
“Thank you, lords and ladies,” came Harry’s infamous English accent over the sound of clapping. “We appreciate your kind attention. Remember that you may witness Hamlet in its entirety beginning this Friday eve, again on Saturday eve, and a final time on Sunday afternoon. And now, you must excuse us as we break for our noon repast. Farewell.”
The crowd grumbled good-naturedly at the end of this free entertainment but obediently dispersed, chatting excitedly among themselves. I waited until all the tourists had continued on down the sidewalk before turning a sour look on Mullins.
“Thanks for the heart attack,” I told him.
Gaining control over his grin, the deputy soberly replied, “Sorry, Ms. Fleet. I was driving past and saw some folks peering in your gate, so I stopped to make sure everything was okay. It turned out it was Mr. Westcott and his people practicing for the show. I don’t normally go for that Shakespeare stuff, but all that swordplay was pretty good. I stuck around, and the next thing you know, we had a whole crowd watching.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the show, Deputy Mullins,” I wryly replied. “And thanks for not slapping us with a citation for swashbuckling in public, or whatever.”
He shrugged. “There’s no law against sword fighting on private property, as long as you practice safely. But you might want to move your car so I don’t have to ticket you for parking facing oncoming traffic. There is a law against that.”
With that, he gave me a crisp nod and put his sunglasses back on, then headed back to his car. Since he appeared to be waiting for me, I muttered a few more bad words and pulled open the gate. Getting back into the Mini, I carefully signaled and pulled around Mullins, then signaled again and pulled into the drive. That must have satisfied him, for with a wave out the driver’s window the deputy drove off.
By the time I had reclosed the gate, parked, and walked back around to the front, the rest of the troupe except for Harry and Mattie had gone back inside. Harry noted the box I was carrying and gave an approving nod.
“A little something for opening night? That’s kind of you.”
“Sorry, it’s just the box with my glass in it,” I told him as I gave Mattie a skritch behind the ears. “Mr. Murphy’s friends finished off all the good stuff last night. But you do seem to have accumulated a few fans here in town. Even Deputy Mullins is a convert.”
“The applause was gratifying,” Harry agreed, tucking the binder under his arm and then liberating his sword from the turf. “And I must say I’m starting to feel more positive about the situation. The troupe is coming together quite nicely. I trust you’ll take part in this afternoon’s session?”
I nodded.
“Excellent,” he replied. “Then that entitles you join us in the dining room. A sandwich platter was delivered from the grocery-store deli a while ago. We’ll have a quick lunch, and then we’re back to work again.”
“Sounds good,” I told him. But when he made as if to head for the house, I put out a restraining hand. “Harry, wait. I really need to talk to you before we join the others.”
He gave me a quizzical look but nodded.
“Step into my office,” he said, and gestured to the Adirondack chairs. We each settled in, though Mattie gave me a side eye for hogging what had been her seat. Harry set down his binder beside him and laid his sword across his lap. “What’s on your mind?”
I hesitated. I’d planned to tell him about my conversation with Dr. Bishop. But it was too much to discuss in the space of a few minutes, so instead I settled on something else that had been bothering me ever since I’d conducted my “hands-free” sweep through the guest rooms.
“It’s about Chris,” I told him. “But first, I have to confess something. Remember at breakfast, when you told me that chances were some of the troupe had prescriptions for anti-anxiety meds? Well, later on, while I was cleaning the rooms, I poked around a little to see if anyone did.”
Harry gave me hard look. “Hold on. You’re saying you searched your guests’ luggage? Does that include mine?”
“No! I mean, I didn’t search anyone’s luggage. Especially not yours. I didn’t even go up to the tower room.”
“Then what exactly did you do?”
Now, I was really regretting sticking my nose into things. But since I couldn’t undo that, let alone undo this conversation with Harry that I’d started, I forged on and hoped he’d agree that the end justified the means.
“All I did was keep my eyes open while I was fixing the beds and straightening the counters in case someone had left a pill bottle lying about. I didn’t touch anything.”
Well, didn’t touch much, I silently amended.
“But I promise it wasn’t idle curiosity,” I went on. “After that call from Dr. Bishop, I felt I owed it to Len to see if I could help figure out what really happened to him.”
“I see,” Harry replied, but from his cool tone I could tell that he wasn’t exactly convinced my motives were pure. “And did you find any benzos on display?”
“Actually, I did. Both Radney and Chris had prescriptions for Pazaxa.”
“Interesting.” The actor nodded, expression growing thoughtful. “I could see Chris, but Radney’s a bit of a surprise. You actually saw their names on the labels?”
“Both of them, yes. And that’s why I need to talk to you about Chris.”
I hesitated again. In this era of hash tags and pronouns, how did one ask a question that could be construed as insensitive at best, hostile at worst … and, noneofyourbusiness either way? But some sixth sense—or maybe it was Len whispering in my ear from the Great Beyond—was telling me that the answer had some bearing on what had happened to Len.
“I don’t know a polite way to put this,” I finally said, “but is Chris a guy or a girl?”
“What?”
The look Harry gave me was one of pure astonishment, though that expression promptly morphed into uncertainty, and then disapproval. “Have you been living under a rock the past few years? You’ve got to know that it’s considered really bad form to ask a question like that, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do. And as far as I know, everyone has been going under the assumption that he is … a guy, I mean. But I think he might actually be Christina, which happens to be the name on his prescription bottle.”
Harry’s expression promptly switched back to astonishment. “Interesting. It’s actually on the label?” At my nod, he went on, “You’re sure Christina isn’t his mom, and he swiped the pills from her?”
“I thought about that. But then there was the pink make-up kit in his luggage.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re going to condemn a guy for liking pink?”
“I’m not condemning anyone!” I shot back, feeling like one of those beleaguered politicians whose comments were constantly taken out of context. “I’m trying to find out what, or who, is behind Len’s death. And I really need someone to bounce my thoughts off of.”
He shook his head and glanced in Mattie’s direction.
“Poor dog, is this what you have to put up with on a regular basis? Okay, okay!” he interrupted himself as I landed a kick on his tights-covered shin. “I’ll be your sounding board, just not your punching bag.”
“Thank you. So, can we start with the possibility that Chris is actually Christina?”
Harry shrugged. “Sure, let’s go with that. Which means what … the kid is transgender? And which is it, Chris to Christina, or Christina to Chris?”
I gave him a stern look, pretty sure he wasn’t taking the matter seriously but also sure that, until further notice, he was the only troupe member I could trust. Or, rather, trust a little.
“Not a clue,” I t
old him. “For all we know, Chris just prefers the name Chris and likes gender-neutral clothing. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m more interested in the name on the prescription bottle. With a different name and gender in the doctor’s records, the prescription would probably be harder to trace.”
“And that’s an issue because …”
“I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I’ve been thinking about those tricks someone in the troupe has been playing. Maybe that’s all Len’s death was originally meant to be … a trick. Maybe someone thought it would be funny to slip the benzos into his drink to make him sick. You know, payback for being a jerk. And they didn’t know that the combination with Len’s painkillers could actually be deadly.”
Harry abruptly straightened in his chair, which is hard to do in an Adirondack and with a sword in one’s lap.
“Whoa. So now we’re moving from Chris going all Viola on us”—referencing, I knew, a female Shakespearean character who’d disguised herself as a male—”to accusing him … er, her … er, they … of murder?”
I shook my head. “I’m not saying anything about murder. And I’m not even saying that Chris did anything. Maybe the only secret he’s keeping is the gender thing. But he sure was upset about Len’s death for only knowing the man a few months.”
And then, channeling my best inner Detective Columbo, I went on, “Plus there’s one more thing. Remember how Len was hit one night while riding his bike, and the case is still unsolved? What if that had been an actual attempt on his life, and the whole benzo in the mimosa was act 2 … only this time it worked?”
I could see from Harry’s expression that he was beginning to consider the possibility, and that he wasn’t liking it at all. And so I continued. “What sort of process do you have for bringing on new GASP members? Would someone have checked Chris out before letting him … her … into the troupe?”
“That’s Tessa’s bailiwick as the GASP secretary. If you’re interested in joining, all you do is fill out an application and attach an acting resume and headshot. She does the preliminary vetting, and then the application goes up before a committee that consists of me, Tessa, and three others. Majority approves, and you’re in for a six-month trial period.”
